Sanguinity
by Mikomi's Pen
Summary: [Suikoden III] A series of vignettes on Albert, Caesar, and their famous family.
1. Deus Ex Machina

**Sanguinity: Deus Ex Machina**

* * *

It had been Mother's idea to spend their yearly vacation on one of the rural, beachy islands west of Obel. Father had put up something of a fight - he always liked to go to the grand cities, Crystal Valley, Muse, Tinto, where he could lose himself in the whirlwind of activity and leave his wife and sons behind. They'd taken the fight behind the closed doors of their bedroom. Caesar had tried to listen in, but Albert had pulled him away. 

"That's not something you should hear," Albert had said, had stared evenly at his brother when Caesar had scowled at him. He wasn't even fifteen at the time, but was already developing the elegance - the arrogance - that would mark him in his later life. He already had that almost infuriating calm. "It isn't."

Caesar couldn't decide, years later, whether or not he resented Albert for that. He couldn't remember years later if he had, back then.

So Caesar hadn't heard the venom his parents had hissed at each other, and the family had gone to the island for those weeks. Mother had liked the rural life, sitting on a cool breezy balcony overlooking the beach and growing progressively more pleasant as she drank successive glasses of wine. Those had been the best days that Caesar remembered with her, when she wasn't manic over his father's affairs, over entertaining company, when she would call him to her and put him on her bony lap and play games, sillier than he was in her drunkenness.

Father, on the other hand, was resentful, shutting himself up in the study of the house and going through books like Mother went through alcohol. But he didn't show up often to the dinner, which was a blessing: Mother, normally so frantic at meals, presided over the meal like a luminous queen, ruddy-cheeked and gracious; her sons paid homage to her, and she granted them their favorite foods and sweets with a sweep of her long hand, taking pleasure in his and Albert's voraciousness as though she had cooked the meals herself.

He remembered best of all how Albert had been, because he followed every mood and movement of his brother then, like he always had - like he still did, though in a different way. Albert read, just like their father, outside his study, glancing up with every opened door and at every footfall. Several times, he convinced Caesar to join him in chess, played against himself when Caesar gave up the prospect of ever winning and started to refuse his brother.

"Maybe I'd play more if you played _fair_," Caesar had pouted.

"Of course I play fair," Albert said, his voice level in contrast to the thrumming satisfaction with which he'd knocked over Caesar's king. "Just because I'm better than you doesn't mean I'm not being fair." Caesar had hit Albert's king over in retribution and ran out the open door before his brother's slow temper simmered up.

As for Caesar himself, he'd spent those days running the dirt pathways and hills of the island, playing explorer and finding hidden waterfalls and caverns. It was, he told himself, way better than the books Albert read. Albert didn't seem to agree with him, sniffing contemptuously when Caesar told him how much more fun it would be to play outside. In revenge, Caesar went down to one of his favorite springs and waged an imaginary naval battle against Albert's armies and crushed him, so that his brother begged him to forgive and Caesar granted lenient peace terms.

A few days in he forgot about his anger as he found a playmate, Yiran, a brown and lean boy a few years older than him who ran through the jungle barefoot and worked on the farm that fed them. Back home an eleven-year-old would never have played with an eight-year-old, but here, Yiran welcomed him ecstatically and ran with him until they'd explored the entirety of the island, and when that was done showed him the in and outs of farm life.

"Wanna know where your dinners come from?" Yiran had asked one day as the vacation drew towards its end, grinning over his missing front teeth. Caesar had been to the grocery store with his mother so hadn't seen any dangers in this question, thinking that Yiran would show him the dangling red strips of meat he was used to. It wasn't that he didn't understand that there was a connection between animals and meat either - it was just a purely academic connection. He frankly wasn't sure how it was possible that he hadn't made the connection at that point - naïveté, perhaps, or simply because he'd been so very sheltered.

Yiran had caught a chicken and had shown him how to hypnotize it. Caesar had entertained himself with tucking its head under its wing and waiting until it was docile, then pushing it over so that it woke from its trance and jumped back up again with a squawk. He laughed, and Yiran grinned, then taken the dazed bird from him and hung it up by its leg.

"What - " Caesar said, and only when Yiran picked up a long knife understood, horribly.

With a quick jerk of his arm, Yiran sliced through the chicken's throat. It let out a noise like a scream, terrifyingly human, and its wings flapped furiously so that its body lifted on the chain from which it hung. And Caesar was aware that he was groaning, more, in pain or something else -

And then Albert was there, kneeling before him, taking his head in his arms and pressing his face into his chest. In him the images faded, and Caesar sobbed, clutching at his shirt.

"What came over you?" Albert hissed, and there was something exhilarating in his sharp anger directed at someone else. "What possessed you, to show him that?"

Yiran's voice was low and sullen, contemptuous of the younger boy but unwilling to antagonize his senior. "I thought he wasn't a sissy."

Hands tugged Caesar to standing, and Albert grasped his arm to lead him out of the vicinity of the still-twitching corpse. Every step, he felt steadier, until he was able to pull himself from Albert's grasp and walk the trail back to the house on his own. Albert looked down at him, then back up.

"Mother told me to get you, was all," Albert said, preemptively defensive. "My job isn't to protect you from the realities of the world."

"I know. It's not like I want that sort of thing from you, either." Caesar looked down at the ground, then back up at his brother. "It was horrific, though."

"Things die, Caesar," Albert said. "It's best you get used to that. Animals die. Plants die." He kicked at a low root as he passed, as though to prove his point. "People die, too."

"I know," Caesar muttered.

"And it's what _they _do, too." The jerk of Albert's head encompassed the house, its inhabitants, and everyone connected to them. "It's what we do. We kill people. It's a necessary function."

"I know." All goodwill Albert had gained with his well-timed rescue was fading.

"Even when we play chess," Albert said. "Every taken chess piece represents another life lost. Knock a piece over and you've killed a thousand men, if only in your mind. It's what we do, Caesar. Slaughtering chickens, slaughtering men - it's no different. You should get used to that, because you'll see a lot worse in your life. You shouldn't be so weak."

"Shut up," Caesar said, and ran ahead of his brother into the house without looking back. He didn't talk to him for the rest of the afternoon.

That night, at dinner, their buoyant mother had looked at them with some concern. "What's the matter?" she asked. "Is the chicken not good?"

"I'm sorry," Albert said. "I just have no appetite."

Caesar made a noise of agreement and looked over to see that Albert hadn't touched the meal, either. He looked up, but Albert wouldn't meet his eyes. He still wondered, sometimes, what that had meant.


	2. Echoes

**Sanguinity: Echoes**

* * *

Caesar had had a pet bird, a brightly-colored creature with an uncanny power of mimicry, that his father had brought back from one of his trips to the Island Nations. He'd brought back another bird for his mother, a scarlet thing with large plumage that loved looking at itself in the mirror; his mother had named it Narcissus. Caesar's bird had an attachment toward his mother's, so Albert, with great amusement which he hadn't bothered to explain, had told Caesar to name his Echo.

He'd forgotten, once, to close Echo's cage. He was a hair under six, then. He'd come back into the room to find Echo perched on his bedframe, staring at him with a gape-beaked grin. He'd had the sense to close the door behind him before trying to grab for the bird; it flew out of his reach and landed on one of the light fixtures and made a sound strangely like a human laugh.

So Caesar had gone to find the most powerful person he knew.

"I'm not going to help you get your bird," Albert, thirteen and gangly, had said from over his book. "It's your fault it flew away."

"Please," Caesar had said. "He flew up too high for me to reach."

"Find one of the maids to do it."

"_Please,_" Caesar had begged, then had rubbed at the tears that had begun to well up in his eyes. Albert had sighed, placed his hand on top of Caesar's head, and stood.

"In your room, right?"

And Caesar had sniffled and nodded, and Albert had kept his grip on his brother's head and guided him forward. Caesar had grinned and reached up to put his hand on top of Albert's as they walked, just liking the feel of it there.

Albert had gotten more into it as they went on. When they reached Caesar's room, he'd stopped, flattened himself against the wall next to the door, pushed Caesar to the opposite side of the doorframe, and held a finger up to his lips. Then he made an elaborate series of hand motions that meant absolutely nothing, his face perfectly solemn. Caesar nodded and gestured back but couldn't keep from giggling, especially when inspiration struck to bend upside down and make gestures from between his legs. At that, Albert actually let out a muffled snort, and Caesar turned back to him, beaming.

"Okay," Albert had whispered, traces of a smile still lingering on his lips. "We're ready."

Then he'd stretched himself out and, tentatively, turned the knob and pushed the door inward. There was hardly even a pause for breath before a mass of scarlet plumage came boiling out, wing making an audible thump against the door. Albert had jumped to catch it and had missed entirely as Caesar had let out a dismayed wail.

It perched on another light and fixed them both with its beady gaze. "Dammit," it said in Caesar's voice; Albert shot a glance back at his brother. Caesar had flushed and crossed his arms in front of him, embarrassed but defiant. And Albert had smiled a smile in the corners of his mouth and looked back at the bird.

"Run and get a towel from the linen closet," Albert said quietly. Caesar had nodded and turned around and looked at the doors in the hall.

"Which one's the linen closet?" he called back.

There'd been a brief moment of silence, then Albert said, "Get the sheet off your bed, then."

Caesar had nodded and pulled at the sheet, but it was too big for him, too bulky; after struggling with it a few moments, he'd picked up one of his shirts instead.

By the time he went back out into the hallway, Albert and the bird had disappeared. He looked to his left and to his right, hugging the shirt to his chest, then heard a muffled "Dammit" from his right. He'd run down that way to find Albert and Echo facing off beside an open window.

Albert, his arms spread out slightly, didn't take his eyes from the bird. Slowly, he reached out his hand. "Give it here." And Caesar, carefully, had placed the shirt in Albert's hand; slowly, Albert had spread it out between his hands, then lunged forward - and had tripped over the rug, falling to his knees and one elbow and shouting a curse that made the ones Caesar had taught his bird rather pale. Echo had taken advantage of the moment, flapping his way out the window.

He'd gotten up and stuck his head out the window. "Dammit," he'd hissed, and from the trees came a joyful answering "Dammit."

Caesar had run over to the window and stood beside his brother. Echo had perched in one of the leafy trees that shielded the Silverbergs from the view of those walking along the street, his red feathers standing out against the trees.

"Echo!" Caesar had bellowed. "Echo, come back!"

"Echo!" the bird had replied, then made that laughing noise again and spread its wings and flown off.

"Come back!" Caesar yelled. "Echo, Echo, come back, come - " Then he'd sat down and started to cry.

"Hey, hey," Albert had said, kneeling down beside his brother and presenting him with the shirt. "Caesar, it's not that big a deal."

Caesar wiped at his eyes and looked up at his brother. "But I - " Caesar had said, then dissolved again, grabbing at the shirt and burying his face into it. "_I loved him._"

There was a moment, then Albert's hand landed on his head again. "Caesar," he said, his tone enough to give pause to Caesar's weeping. "I have something to admit to you."

"What?"

"Promise you won't hate me," Albert said, and Caesar blinked up at him, confused.

"I promise," he said.

"I made Echo leave," he said, leaning in conspiratorially. "I'm sorry."

"You - _why?_" Caesar said, crying again.

"Because I trained him to," Albert said. "Right now, he's flying away to Harmonia, where I'm going to school next fall. I made him remember your voice, so that whenever I want to I can lean over and hear my little brother cursing."

"_Why?_" Caesar had repeated, sniffing.

"'Cause I'll miss you," Albert had said, tousling Caesar's hair. "But with Echo I'll never be lonely."

And Caesar had blinked and taken a deep breath and wiped at his nose. "Why didn't you just tell me?" he had said, still quivering on the edge of tears.

"It's embarrassing," Albert had said. "Me, almost a man, and still homesick?" He hooked his arm around Caesar's neck. "But I will be."

Caesar had clenched his jaw, then turned and wrapped his arms around Albert's neck. "That's okay, then," he said. There was a moment when Albert was a little tense. Then he'd relaxed and hugged his brother back.

"I'm sorry about your bird," Albert said.

"It was a boring bird anyway," Caesar had replied.

For some reason, he'd believed Albert's story until he'd headed off to Soledt himself and seen Albert's room, empty of any bird, empty of memories of Caesar. Logically, he should have figured it out. It still had made him sullen for days.


	3. First Blood

**Sanguinity: First Blood**

* * *

It probably said a lot that the trip to have Caesar drink the blood of an executed criminal was made into a family vacation, but they all went, strange as it was, Caesar and Albert and their mother and father and two maids, all together. It was their first and last trip to the North, because the North was the only place that still beheaded its criminals; hanging was in vogue anywhere more pleasant. So his mother pretended not to mind the cold, and Father pretended not to mind the lack of civilization, and they went. 

Apparently, there was a whole business of it, though Caesar, only nine, hadn't understood much of what was going on. But apparently they'd scheduled an appointment and everything - on the first day of the trip so that the rest could be given over to leisure - and had a representative, a liason to the company who would walk them through the whole process. The man was waiting for them already when they arrived at the house that they'd taken for the week.

Caesar, for some reason, remembered the man clearly. He'd been chubby, jolly, a salesman incarnate, with longish white hair wreathing his head and a shiny bald patch on top. He'd spoken their language with only the barest accent and had smelled of tobacco and - though this might have just been Caesar's mind confusing things - he thought blood. When he was older, it had occurred to him to be surprised that the man wasn't at all doctorly, was instead a representative of the business side of death.

At the time, though, he'd been terrified of the man, hiding behind Albert's legs even though he knew he was too old for that. Just this time, Albert forgave him, reaching out to rest his hand atop Caesar's head comfortingly.

"Lord Silverberg, Lady Silverberg," he'd greeted. "I'm Gregor Malkov. I trust your journey was pleasant?" And he didn't even wait for a response before squatting to look at Caesar, ignoring Albert and the maids completely. "And this must be poor sick Caesar."

And Caesar had been inordinately pleased when Albert spoke up. "Yes, this is Caesar, and you needn't be so facetious."

"_Albert,_" their mother had hissed, and their father had glowered at his rudeness, but Caesar couldn't have possibly wished for a better brother than this one, who was not only keeping Caesar from having to speak to this awful man but chastising Gregor for treating Caesar like a child. In spite of the cold and the long journey and the fact that Albert himself had made fun of Caesar for being childish that very day, he couldn't have been more pleased.

And Gregor himself wasn't too offended, giving a great laugh from his belly and straightening to look at Albert. "Oh, my, aren't you a precocious young man," he said. "Albert, was it?"

And Albert didn't even bother to respond; he just tilted his chin up imperiously. "Neither my mother nor my father have been able to justify all of this to me. Explain the merits of the procedure."

Their mother had cut in, bobbing her head apologetically. "Forgive him," she'd begged. "He's only just gotten back from Soledt Academy. He won a few awards, so the boy thinks he knows everything." Then she'd glared over at Albert; Albert had glared back, and once again Gregor had given one of those enormous laughs.

"Oh, quite all right," he'd said to their mother. "He's hardly the first young man who's been drunk on his own knowledge." And Caesar had looked up to see Albert's neck tensing and his back straightening, and had grinned a little to himself. There was nothing Albert hated more than being talked about to someone else. Caesar had been quite pleased that now, Albert would powerfully hate the very man to whom Caesar had taken such a dislike. When Gregor turned back to Albert, Caesar could almost feel the contempt gather around his brother in a cloud. "We don't know why it works," Gregor said. "It just does. It's miraculous. One time - " He leaned in conspiratorially, but Albert leaned away to keep the distance between them and their father frowned deeper and their mother buried her face in her hands. "One time," Gregor went on, heedless of Albert, "we had a little girl having a fit right before her turn. We dropped just a little blood in her mouth, and right there, it stopped! Never came back again. It's miraculous."

Albert stared motionless at Gregor a moment, then looked over at their parents. "The man is a charlatan," he said clearly. "Mark my words." Then he looked back to Gregor, who was for the first time starting to show signs of anger. "Or do you have something more convincing?"

"My boy," Gregor said, the twist of the words in his mouth deliberately insulting, "you're hardly the one I care about convincing."

That statement did what Albert could not: their parents, for the first time, looked less determined and more uncertain. But Albert, in challenging Gregor, had challenged their decision as well. Their pride wouldn't let them back down. So even though the tenor of their father's perpetual scowl changed a little, and even though their mother wrung her hands furiously and looked back and forth among Father and Gregor and Albert, neither said a thing.

And when Gregor stepped back and looked at them and said, "Milord and lady, are you nearly ready?" their father had nodded.

But Albert wasn't done. "And what guarantee is there against infection? This is the blood of a _criminal. _Are those the humors we want going into a child?"

"I assure you that it's safe," Gregor said.

"Your assurances - " Albert started, but their father cut in harshly.

"Be quiet, Albert." And Albert immediately fell silent, dropping his protective touch away from Caesar. "I want you to stay here."

For a moment, Albert tensed, as though he were going to protest. Then he slumped back. "All right," he said quietly.

Caesar looked between his brother and father. He reached up to grip Albert's sleeve and said, "I want Albert with me."

All three adults looked down at Caesar as though startled to hear him speak up. Albert, though, didn't look down at him, just gently plucked his hand from his sleeve and walked away from him. "I'll stay," he said, and walked past their parents up the stairs. A moment later there was the sound of a door shutting. Caesar had balled his hands into fists and nearly cried.

They'd all gotten into a carriage and ridden across the city, much larger in Caesar's memory than it had been when he'd visited it once again as an adult. There hadn't been a private facility. Executions had been held publicly in the square. And the five of them, Caesar, his parents, Gregor, and the maid who had been told to hold Caesar's hand, stood in the prime spot, before all the crowds, with three other families with children only a little older than he had been. Caesar had nearly started crying again when they'd led the man onto the platform, feeling as though he was the one to be killed.

He hadn't been able to look away, of course. Between the terror and the anger and the wish for his brother there was the thought, in the back of his head, of how much this would impress the other boys back home, and how if he looked away he'd lose the best chance he ever had at popularity. So he'd been staring up as the man knelt down before the block. The man had met his eyes and - it looked as though in habit - had smiled grotesquely, his mouth gaping open as politeness proved unable to completely overcome fear. And Caesar had smiled back, confused and even more frightened than before. He gripped the maid's hand tightly, and looked up to see her eyes closed. He looked back. The man was now looking down, his lips moving silently. Then the executioner raised his blade and dropped it again, and the man's head came off into a basket placed for the purpose. Caesar had stared, too horrified to scream.

That was when the man of the company had sprung into action. The representatives sent to the families didn't get anywhere near the blood, of course; they stood back discreetly as a fifth man, rather thin and dirty with tired eyes, placed a goblet beneath the dead man's spurting neck. Within seconds he was kneeling before Caesar, gripping his face so that his jaw opened and tipping the blood into his mouth and watching to make sure he swallowed. Caesar didn't want to, but he couldn't hold the blood in his mouth, either, as bitter and fiery and foul as it was, so he just went ahead and swallowed and felt like he wanted to throw up. Then the thin man moved away to repeat the procedure on the other children. Caesar had started to cry.

When they got home, Mom had directed the maid who had stayed behind to get Caesar cleaned up. Normally he did anything necessary to avoid a bath, but he was too weary and shocked and horrified to try anything. He'd just gone along, sitting quietly as the maid had scrubbed him. Even she, who hadn't been there, had been silent. Maybe she'd understood his horror.

He'd lain awake that night, unable to sleep with the taste of blood and the memory of the dead man lingering. The walls were thin, and Caesar's room was right next to Albert's; when their father had gone in to speak to Albert, Caesar had heard.

"I'm ashamed of you. I had thought you were more mature than that."

There had been a long silence, and then Albert had said, quietly, "I'm sorry." Then a footstep, and Albert said, a bit louder, "This isn't going to work." There was stillness a moment, then he continued: "They didn't ask anything about when his sickness started, what caused the fits - they just wanted to collect our money."

Their father's voice was sharper than Caesar had heard it in a long time when he said, "I don't understand why you don't think I want the best for Caesar."

"That's not what I...I have a friend at Soledt. His father is a doctor. A Harmonian doctor. I told him about Caesar - "

There was another silence, and Caesar drew the covers up closer to his chin imagining how terribly their father must be glaring at Albert right now. Quietly, Father said, "I don't like you reminding people about this family's weakness."

"I know," Albert said, "but there was a reason. His father has treated cases of the falling sickness before. And I trust him. I trust that he won't talk about it." Another silence, and then, more confidently: "He says it's a matter of some - something in the brain, there's science behind it. He says his father knows a way...It's treatable, Father, I know that. And it wouldn't be difficult at all; you could send Caesar to me, and I could take care of him while he's in Harmonia and then send him back. I - "

"No," their father said.

Then, angrily, caustically, Albert said, "Yes, I do wonder why it is I think you don't want the best for your son." And Caesar gasped, quietly enough that they couldn't hear it, because Albert had never spoken that way to Father before. _No one _had ever spoken that way to Father before.

And evidently, there was a reason. "The more you speak, the more you prove that you're not nearly so smart as you think," their father growled with such intensity that even Caesar couldn't imagine even Albert withstanding it. "I won't do it because I have already treated Caesar, and because I have made a decision, and because it's an idea quite nearly as stupid as you have proven yourself to be." Then he'd walked audibly from the room and down the stairs. A moment later, Caesar heard the outside door slam, meaning that their father was going out on one of his walks. Caesar didn't know when he finally drifted off to sleep, but it was after listening to hours of chess pieces clicking against the board.

It was Caesar himself who validated Albert, the first time he'd done something truly helpful for his brother. In the carriage home, he'd had another fit and hit his head so hard he'd passed out and their mother had screamed, thinking he was dead. A month later, Caesar and his parents had traveled to Harmonia to see Albert's doctor. Albert had stayed discreetly behind.


End file.
